Lost Within These Walls
by Jossa
Summary: A short one-shot exploring the time Belle was locked up in Storybrooke.


**Author's Note:** This was a random idea that popped into my head and refused to leave me alone until I wrote it down. I just wanted to play with Belle a bit, and I thought it would be interesting to explore the time she was locked up.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Once Upon A Time or any of its characters.

How she came to be in that solitary room she could never recall. The more fiercely she groped for the memory, it seemed utterly determined to keep just out of reach. Why couldn't she remember? Had something happened to cause this? Or had she always been this way, unable to remember because something inside her didn't work properly?

Time held no meaning. Days, weeks, years; she had no way of knowing how much time she spent in that horrid room. Neither sun nor moon could be seen, and she found herself fighting to remember what they looked like, how they felt. The sun was yellow, gold, warm -orange?- and what did warmth feel like? In the dank room with a single blanket and thin clothing the memory of true warmth seemed only that; a memory. The moon, pale blue -white- and cold. No, not always. Right? Each memory she could bring forth she clung to with fervor, but for every one she held on to, she felt a hundred more had eluded her.

Twice a day a woman brought her food and water, and not a word did she utter when she came. Whether politely greeted, questioned, or screamed at, the woman hardly spared her a glance before leaving. No one else ever came. Except, very rarely, a woman -the eyes were all she saw, but they certainly appeared female- would peer through the door at her for a brief moment before disappearing, as though checking to be sure the prisoner had not escaped.

Often she thought about books. Titles she could never recall, but her hands remembered the feeling of hard covers and mildly textured pages. If she tried hard enough, she could almost imagine she felt the weight of one resting on her palms or in her lap. Her nose still knew the scent of books, and her mind connected it with serenity, safety. Once, she tried asking the woman with the food for a book. She still had to imagine them in her grasp. Sometimes she thought of tea cups, or red roses; but any significance that may have been lurking behind those thoughts escaped her.

She began pacing, mumbling to herself all the details of the few precious memories she had to keep them from being lost in oblivion. In that tiny room, she only had so much floor to cover. Just for a change, every so often in the midst of her pacing she would purposely turn so quickly her head spun. Sometimes she stumbled and scraped a knee or hand on the floor.

She kept pacing. Kept mumbling.

A physically painful need for human interaction ensnared her, and she began speaking against the walls. Hello, how are you? I'm fine. Well, actually I'm not fine. You see, I can't seem to remember anything. I try. I really try, but it seems something's wrong with me. Something's wrong with you, too? I'm sorry. Do you remember the sun? Does she talk to you? She never talks to me. Do the eyes ever come to look at you?

The wet slap of the janitor mopping the floor echoed somewhere on the other side of the door, and she retreated to her bed.

I'm still here. Are you? This food is dreadful. I think. I can't quite remember what other food tastes like. Do you ever think about teacups? Is there something special about them? Perhaps it's only me.

The temperature dropped; she went to her bed.

I think I remember the moon. I thought about it all last night -day? week?- and I'm pretty sure it's white and blue, and a large circle, except the circle isn't always whole. Is that how you remember it? I long for a book. My clearest memories are of books. Have you any?

A meal was brought. She ignored the tray and huddled beneath her blanket.

You know, I don't even know your name. It's all right. I don't seem to know my own name either. I wonder if maybe I forgot it on purpose, because I didn't care for it. Even if it is a terrible name, I think I should like to know it.

To bed she went.

I don't think you're going to answer me.

She screamed. With all the power her lungs could muster she shrieked and hollered. Someone had to hear. Someone had to come, if only to tell her to _shut up_. For an eternity she wailed on and on.

No one came.

Throat raw and flaming, voice little more than a croak, she took to beating the walls. The strength she could no longer channel into her lungs she poured into her fists. Her knuckles split; red splattered the colorless room.

Huddled on her bed, she returned to her muttering.

The door opened, and instead of the woman who brought food, a man entered. A man who made eye contact and spoke directly to her.

The cycle had been broken.

A chance for freedom had come, and she seized it.


End file.
